


foster parenting

by aesling



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fan Statement, Gen, M/M, Screenplay/Script Format, The Spiral, its a safehouse fic guys. you know the deal, the jonmartin is just post-statement stuff but its cute i promise, vaguely post-159/very start of 160 (pre Yknow What)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesling/pseuds/aesling
Summary: Statement of Henry Walsh, regarding three children he never quite adopted.
Relationships: (background), Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Original Character & Original Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 96





	foster parenting

**Author's Note:**

> was thinking about how love is so inherent to tma so here's a thing about that. love is real and it's everywhere
> 
> (thanks to rey and ron for helping me out u are icons)

[TAPE CLICKS ON.]

**ARCHIVIST**

Statement of Henry Walsh, regarding three children he never quite adopted. Original statement given April 20th, 2014. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

**ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)**

I’ve always wanted kids. My sister has two, although they’re all grown up now. Sometimes, when I was babysitting the twins while Annette was off on a business trip, I’d get this funny feeling in my chest that I only later identified as jealousy. I wanted to be able to do this kind of thing every day and every night, but with a kid or few that I could really call mine. I’d walk home after, thinking about it for the rest of the night, but already knowing that I’d never be able to adopt, what with me being a single bloke with a job that barely paid above minimum wage and a habit of not being able to hold on to a boyfriend for more than a week. I’d still think about it, though, every time.

One day, I came home and something felt… different. Not right. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but there was something as I stepped through the door that set my teeth on edge. The space felt less _real_ somehow. I ignored it as best I could, and set about getting ready for bed.

It was about one in the morning when I heard it. There’s always been one floorboard in the hallway that creaks, no matter how lightly you step on it. It’s an old house, there are plenty of quirks like that to find. So I heard it, when a footfall hit it just enough for the sound to bounce through the otherwise empty place. I froze, knowing that nobody had keys to the house but me and Annette, who had no reason to visit in the middle of the night.

I stayed perfectly still, breath held, and listened. It got to be just long enough that I’d nearly convinced myself that I’d imagined it, but then right as I started to relax, there it was again. There were more footsteps, seemingly running back and forth down the hall, although they seemed too light to be from the boots of an adult that might be robbing me. Then, faintly enough that I had to strain to make it out, there was the sound of childlike laughter, a giggle that echoed and sunk into my brain in a way that held the same _unnatural_ feeling as I’d sensed earlier.

Before I even realized what was happening, I found myself standing by the door to my room, hand on the doorknob and beginning to turn it. Confusion and unease twisting through my gut, I opened it slowly and peered out through the crack. What I saw… it made no _sense_ . There was nothing there, but at the same time, there was. Everywhere I looked, shapes flitted across the corner of my vision, small and distorted, but I could never quite get a glimpse of them directly. I get the feeling that if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to process what I was seeing. My mind screamed at me with the _wrongness_ of it, a wave of nausea rising in my gut, and I stepped back, slamming the door shut.

For a moment, all the noises stopped. I stood there, watching the door, as footsteps that didn’t quite sound like real footsteps _should_ came slowly, carefully to stand right on the other side of the door – and then stopped. I waited a second, a minute, listening for _anything_ as my heart pounded. Then, as if whatever it was had gotten bored with this game, the footsteps retreated and began to trace up and down the hallway once again. I crept back to bed as silently as I could, pulled the blanket over my head, and prayed that by tomorrow they’d go away.

They didn’t go away. Whenever I was home, they’d be there, making noises just out of view or popping up in the corner of my eye only to be gone by the time I looked over. There were three of them, as far as I can tell. Although I never truly saw any of them, there were _impressions_ that one would make that another wouldn’t. The edge of a little pink sundress, or something that might’ve been a dark hand linked with a lighter one disappearing around the corner, or a slightly different pitch to the giggles that left a ringing in my ears. Once I caught a glimpse of a little face in the corner of my mirror, clouded over in what looked like static, or a computer’s glitching effect. I couldn’t make out their eyes, and my head started to swim when I tried to think about what they actually _looked_ like. It still does.

They seemed like children, they really did. Or the afterimages of them, at least. And I think… that’s what made them feel less scary. They were just playing, I thought, and that wasn’t something I could hold against them. You can’t be upset with a child for acting like a child acts. I stopped flinching when they came up in the corner of my vision. I’d hear the sound of a door slamming, the patter of feet across the floor, and I’d call out with an, “Alright?” or a hum of acknowledgment, but I wouldn’t always look up from my book.

I came home one day with an armful of toys. My neighbour Molly looked at me like I was insane as she glimpsed me out her window, because she knows that I live alone. Maybe I was insane, but I didn’t mind too much. If they really were kids, I thought, surely they’d want something to do while I was out. When I was little, I’d always get bored of hide and seek by the third round or so, and I couldn’t imagine being in an empty house all day. They might not be real, but I ought to take care of them all the same. So I carefully laid out everything I’d bought, and I went to make a meal for four – one big plate, and three small ones.

It took a while, but I know when they noticed because the energy in the room changed. I could feel the frustration rolling off them, waves of it that made my vision go fuzzy at the edges, like this _wasn’t the way this was supposed to be going_ , like I wasn’t supposed to be taking any of this the way I was. But… there was something like curiosity there, too. A quizzical tilt of all three heads, which of course weren’t there when I turned to look.

Life went on. The toys would be in a different place every time I came home, places I was certain I hadn’t left them. I kept leaving meals out for them, and they never ate them – I’m not sure if they _could_ have eaten them if they tried – but sometimes I’d turn to see a fork facing a different direction than it’d been before, or a plate of chips arranged into something that might’ve been a smile, or might’ve been my eyes playing tricks. _(laughing)_ They never touched the vegetables.

I haven’t seen them, or not-seen them, in a while now. I do miss them. I’m a bit worried for them, which is perhaps an odd thing to say, but I’ve been told I’m an odd man. They’ll come back, though, I know they will – because I think that as I grew to care about these strange presences in my life, they grew to care about me too. Or... no. Not that. I suppose I need to be more careful about anthropomorphizing things that clearly were not _people_. I don't know if they were _capable_ of caring about me the same way I, maybe foolishly, became attached to them. But they at least found me amusing.

So it’s alright if they take their time coming back. I get the feeling they don’t like to be confined to one place for too long; they always had such a fascination with doors. That’s alright with me. They’ll always have a home with me, if they want it. I _know_ they're not my kids, and they don't love me like kids would. But a haunted house is better than an empty one.

**ARCHIVIST**

Statement ends. I… _(long exhale)_ Well, this is certainly an unusual manifestation of the Spiral. It’s always been one of the more unpredictable entities, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it just give up entirely and _befriend_ a would-be victim? I mean, the Distortion’s... _complicated_ interactions with myself and others in the archives are one thing, but this feels – hm.

I’ve had reason, recently, to think a lot about… _(hesitating, flustered)_

...A-About– _caring_ , as Mr. Walsh mentions in his statement. About the power that it can have. I –

[DOOR OPENS.]

**MARTIN**

Jon – Oh, sorry, were you still recording?

**ARCHIVIST**

_(instantly softer)_ Just finishing up, don’t worry. 

**MARTIN**

_(teasing)_ Alright, well, when you’ve finished talking about whoever the entities have been harassing this time, come down into the village with me to pick up some food, yeah? I didn’t get _nearly_ enough last time, considering we’re already almost out of everything.

[THE ARCHIVIST HUMS IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT.]

[DOOR CLOSES.]

**ARCHIVIST**

I think... _(long pause)_ What Mr. Walsh mentions– I think that there’s a lot to it. To – 

[HARD FOR HIM TO SAY, AS HE OBVIOUSLY MEANS HIMSELF AS WELL.]

 _(softly)_ To love. I think that’s… one of the most important things you can do. Loving someone. 

I really do.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]

**Author's Note:**

> love is real and i think henry should get therapy or a cat or something. i also think jon and martin can have little a domestic bliss with no ap*calypse thanks. jonahelias magnusbouchard do not interact i have disowned you from the gay community for your crimes


End file.
